


Colors

by OneMoreWander



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: BDSM, Implied abuse, M/M, Porn With Plot, albeit slightly abstract, non-con elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-01
Updated: 2018-02-01
Packaged: 2019-03-12 05:47:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13541007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneMoreWander/pseuds/OneMoreWander
Summary: Red means stop, green means go. Waylon went to Eddie because he needed to be numbed, but why does he stay?





	Colors

Why he comes back, he may never know.

The web lacing his neck is thick and pulled taut, trapping him in his own fear; he could choke himself, slit his own throat, or snap the bindings only to find that the lace was the only thing keeping him grounded without actually touching the ground. If he leaves, where would he go? What would he do? How could he speak without feeling that familiar pressure crushing his throat, threatening to take all of the air right out of his lungs?

The lace is metaphorical, yet it feels so real. Under his skin, in his thoughts, behind closed eyelids where he imagines it behind coiled around him, thread circling over his head, draping his shoulders. It is loose and lies lifeless across his collar and chest before being constricted, dragging out a fearful yet excited gasp from parched lips. He struggles to swallow and revels in the way his adam’s apple bops beneath the lace.

What color is it? How long is it? Where does it begin and where does it end?

 Waylon has been bound before, plenty, but whenever he thinks about it his thoughts tend to reminisce upon the first.

He had never felt so overwhelmingly hollow before.

\-----------------

“Do you remember what you’re supposed to say?”

 The word was easy: red. A color so engrained into his memory that he should have no problem saying it. A safeword. He had never used one before. Waylon rolls the word around his tongue, silently speaking it as if learning it for the first time, seeing the color drip like blood, tasting its iron. He chews it around for a few more seconds before nodding and repeating it a little hesitantly.

“R-red. Red means stop.”

“And what does green mean?”

 “Go.”

“And if you want me to slow down?”

“Yellow.”

 “Good.”

A convenient concept, really; Waylon isn’t sure how well he’d fare if Eddie decided on something even slightly more complicated. They’ve just barely started, hardly touched, and Waylon is already feeling his stomach revolt; although, he tries not to focus on the churning too much, instead prodding at the bed sheets with the tip of his fingers. Above him, Eddie hums and shifts.

Warm breath ghosts across his cheeks as the man leans close to his ear, their eyes locking for a split second that allows Waylon a glance at sees his own terrified expression. His heart skips when something wet scrapes along his earlobe, and he shudders into it when said tongue changes into lips.

“You’re so tense, Darling,” Eddie whispers against his temple, kissing Waylon gently there before going back to lightly grazing his ear. Eddie bites him one more time, and then he trails south, following the curve of his throat down to the jut of his shoulder, sucking pale skin and leaving wet trails. Waylon pinches the sheets harder, keeping himself still like he’s supposed to, somehow managing to convince himself to not look. He has to be obedient, like Eddie asked him to.

“What color?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Green.” His voice is trembling while not quite being a whimper, and Eddie merely chuckles in response.

Time moves impossibly slow as Eddie teases him, kissing every inch of exposed skin absently, lapping at his sides and lower belly, leaving marks across his waistline, ceaselessly touching and teasing without ever truly _giving._ Making a mockery of Waylon’s submission. And he feels belittled like this: quietly begging for Eddie to take him like he used to. Like a lover on his honeymoon, before the more meticulous, conniving desires to undo have settled in. Because that is exactly what the older man is doing to him. Unwinding Waylon to his smallest structure and capturing it between his teeth, and Waylon’s senses are so frayed at this point that he instantly notices when large hands depart from his body and leave only lips, teeth, and tongue.

“Eddie?” He asks, gaze moving from the ceiling to the man pulling away from him. “When are we-“

“Color?”

“Green.”

Eddie gives him a slight nod and smile, which calms Waylon enough to watch Eddie disappear behind his back without feeling uneasy. The bed shifts under their weight while Eddie moves about; Waylon listens to the rustling sheets to distract himself from what he knows is about to come. He stares at the lamp in the corner of the room and attempts to figure out its wattage by how bright the light is. He basks in the orange hue behind his closed eyes, finding comfort in the lack of darkness.

He knows that Eddie is done toying with him when he feels the first touch of lace hit his shoulder.

This lace is very similar to rope, albeit more flexible and softer. It contorts around his body easily but that may be because of Waylon’s mimicry of a mannequin more so than its own malleability. He does not move while Eddie works, does not take any sharp inhales or exhales throughout the process, keeps his eyes closed despite the vanishing orange light and the growing shadows that blanket his eyelids like a tsunami. All the while, Eddie is speaking sweet nothings to him in tune with an abstract melody, lightly adjusting Waylon’s position to better wrap the lace around him. Waylon ignores most of it for his own sanity – except when Eddie apologizes for binding his wrists too tightly – and is grateful when Eddie ties the last knot and claps in satisfaction.

“You are…so beautiful,” Eddie exhales like a prayer, and tilts Waylon’s chin up with his thumb. The stretch hurts just a little due to the layer of fabric bandaging his throat, but Waylon manages without a word. He wets his lips in anticipation, leaving them parted in wait.

If only he could lift his arms to wrap around Eddie’s neck, or tear off the lace covering his eyes to at least see the man burning his skin with one-sided touches. He know that he shouldn’t beg too much, shouldn’t whine or cry or force or else he’ll taint his image into that of a _whore_ , but when the space between them seems as though it will never close Waylon hears himself speaking without even thinking about it.

“I-I’m ready, Eddie. I’m green, okay? You can go ahead. Just hurry – please? I can’t…” He gulps, unsure of how to convey the growing desperation pooling into his mind and gut. His muscles twitch beneath the lace, anxiety steadily coursing through him and the quieter it gets the more paranoid he feels. He needs something, anything, _now._ “I can’t see.”

He couldn’t see but he could feel; every inch of Eddie felt like a new mountain to climb. He pulled against his restraints, wrinkling sheets under grasping hands, and spread his legs wide while simultaneously arching his back for relief. The blindfold stayed on for the duration of their…session…leaving Waylon in a constant state of euphoric agony.

His chest constricted in time with violent thrusts, choking him more than moaning did, and what little slack of lace he had to work amounted to nothing when the knots felt like they were tightening by the minute. He could already imagine the many bruises, welts, and burns sure to form by morning, but he couldn’t bring himself to care too much when Eddie was fucking him into the mattress and he was drowning in the rush of it all.

When a sharp thrust lights his world in fireworks and bliss, Waylon cries at the top of his lungs and rides the wave until a harsh hand wraps around his throat and squeezes. He chokes over the moan and opens his eyes to find a bleak abyss of black. The blindfold is still there.

“Eddie what are you doing?”

The older man grunts above him and stills right at Waylon’s entrance. “Darling,” he coos, yet the tone of the endearment sounds different somehow. “What color?” he asks.

“E-Eddie, I don’t want to do this anymo-“

“What,” the hand around Waylon’s throat squeezes harder, “color?”

 Waylon tries to jerk away from him but he’s limited to small shuffles due to the lace; the binds burn raw against his skin, and instead of pleasure interlaced with pain all he can feel is the ache in his joints and muscles, how taut his shoulders feel from being pulled back and his wrists from being shackled together. Eddie’s grip doesn’t loosen, and now he can hardly gasp for air.

He can’t breathe, and the realization hits him like a brick.

Eddie’s voice is filled with venom when he asks again, _“What color?”_ and all Waylon can see is red. Bloody crimson that stains and drips and paints the world macabre. Struggling is futile when all sense of direction has been destroyed by sweat and heavy air. Eddie pushes back into him without warning, and the cry that escapes his lips is more sorrow than anything else. His heart is pounding in his chest like the drum of thunder; he twists again but the large hand suffocating him is holding his head down.

“Darling.”

Eddie is impatient now, and he should have known this – he should have done as he was _told_ – but what did he do wrong? What was he supposed to do?

The drying cum on his stomach is cold and disgusting.

“I am going to ask one more time,” Eddie growls, thrusting harsh enough now to rock Waylon’s limp body. “Tell me, my love, what color do you see?”

Red. Red. Red. Red.

Red.

And then his throat is suddenly freed and all he can do is swallow air. The feeling is beyond refreshing, beyond perfect, beyond anything he can describe and yes, he can see the bright burn of red torching his peripherals despite the literal nothing before his eyes. He shudders, and grabs at the torn sheets behind his back.

“Green. Eddie, I see green!”

\-----------------

_"I don’t like this at all, Way,” Lisa’s face is twisted in that guilt-trippy way she displays when she’s tired of repeating herself but doesn’t want to give up. Waylon is used to this expression by now – having been the cause and target of it a hundred times over – and smiles sympathetically as a silent apology. She doesn’t take the bait. “You don’t even know him.”_

_“He’s my boss,” Waylon says and yes, alright, that was weak. Setting his laptop down beside hers, he pulls up a swivel chair and takes a seat to her left. Lisa scoots over some to give him more space, but for some reason the action feels aggravated and pointed._

_He hesitates to look at her, afraid to meet her scrutiny and disappointment but pulls himself together when she nudges his elbow for his attention. Sighing, Waylon starts his laptop and begins typing, saying, “Look, I know that you don’t agree with this and may not even completely understand – actually, you don’t, but this is something I need… I need to do, alright? Every day it’s as if I’m crawling out of my skin and nothing helps. Not therapy, not exercise, not work, not even you.”_

_He shouldn’t have said that; Lisa stiffens and burns a hole into the side of his face from where she is staring, but now that he has finally started it is impossible to stop or else he may never attempt to explain himself again._

_“I’m sorry, but I can’t ask you for what I need.”_

_“And what you need is_ sex?! _”_

_“Don’t!” Waylon shoots her a dirty glare before surveying the office to make sure that no one heard her, “talk so loud. And it’s not just sex. I don’t know how to explain it… I just, I need-“_

_"Miles likes you,” she starts, lifting a finger to his forehead. “I’m pretty sure that he’d be willing to dominate you.”_

_Waylon swats her hand like a fly, sputtering, “W-We’re not even like that! He and I are friends, and like I said I’m not doing it for the sex.”_

_"Correction:_ just _for the sex. You want the sex and more.”_

_It’s a while before he responds to her. In the midst of the silence that spreads between them is uneven weight and tension that is both extremely uncomfortable and out of place. Waylon tries to stay focused on his code instead of the woman to his side by blocking out the blur of her silhouette in his peripheral and ignoring her occasional glances. But despite all of his efforts he still takes note of when her shoulders slump and resignation sets into her body. A few more minutes and then he feels her prod his shoulder._

_“Hey, computer dork,” she whispers. He finishes the line of code he was working on before turning to face her._

_"Yeah?”_

_Lisa is beautiful, he thinks absently; compassionate, smart, and a great friend with big, round eyes and soft hair; she was absolutely perfect and that’s what drove him away. He needed pain._

_“If you think that screwing around with our boss is what you need to do, then I won’t stop you. I’m pretty sure that there are some HR issues at present here but what they don’t won’t hurt ‘em, right?” Somehow, in spite of the exasperation set deeply into her eyes, she forces out a smile. “Just be careful, and if you need me to kick some ass then don’t hesitate to let me know. Boss or not, I don’t need this job if it comes down to that.”_

_She places her hand over his, gentle yet firm, a show of good faith, and he squeezes hers back. “Thanks, Lisa. I really appreciate you.”_

\-----------------

Would Lisa be proud of him right now?

No.

No, she wouldn’t be.

Not when he’s curled underneath a mass of blankets and pillows while his supposed boss takes a shower in the other room. Honestly, Waylon feels like utter shit, but he bides his time by messing with a few stray strands of thread hanging off of the nearest pillowcase. He found purchase on one of the corners about twenty minutes ago and has stayed in this position, idly destroying the sewing without pause.

He listens to the muffled pelt of water without paying attention to it, allowing the noise to settle in the background and create a white space between his actions, current situation, and his mind. It’s easier to accept his defeat when he doesn’t have to think about it.

Sure, he still has his job and faithfully goes in - a regular nine-to-five and excellent employee - and yes, he still laughs with Lisa and Miles and visits them at their houses on the occasion, but there has been a shift somewhere within him. It is very minuscule and hardly noticeable to others, since neither Lisa nor Miles have mentioned a change in his behavior, yet it seems as though the very fabric of Waylon’s mental state has altered. Whereas he was once more independent than anything else, he now feels exponentially dependent. Forever alone. Detached. Starving for contact where there once was no need for it, and no one besides Gluskin can quell his need - his addiction.

The rope around his throat has turned into a permanent chain collar, and he has no desire to hack it off.

Waylon picks his head up when the shower turns off.

“Waylon, could you be a dear and bring me a towel please?” Eddie calls from the bathroom and Waylon is equal parts ashamed of and excited by the way he bolts off the bed to complete the task. Not too long later, after having rummaged through the contents of Eddie’s drawers to find where he kept fresh towels, Waylon is knocking on the door with a white towel draped over his arm, like some kind of servant.

“You can come on in, the door’s unlocked.”

He steps inside without any more prompting, just a little surprised by the calm in Eddie’s voice, and has to suppress a  yelp when he’s immediately slammed against the door and facing a severely familiar side of Eddie. He’s not even shocked by this, just disappointed in the split-second where he assumed that Eddie was happy.

A wave of needles splinter down his arms from where Eddie is pinning him, just slightly numbing his hands. Waylon closes his eyes and clouds his thoughts with the scent of forestry and soap radiating off of Eddie. It’s pleasant, reminding Waylon of the early days where pleasure was pleasure and nothing more. When the sweet touch of Eddie’s wasn’t enough to shut off his racing thoughts but was brilliant nonetheless.

So he stands there, anticipating either a backhand or shake or insult, and finds himself growing wary when a full minute passes and nothing happens. Testing his luck, Waylon trails his gaze from Eddie’s wet feet to the water dripping down his bare chest; he hesitates to look any higher, and holds his stare here for another full minute before steeling his nerves and counting his loses. He lifts his head, catching the full pierce of violently bloodshot eyes that hold the ocean in their depths, and catches Eddie’s bottom lip in a kiss.

A soft, careful kiss that sends a crescendo of warmth and peace through Waylon’s unsuspecting body. The contrast in this one contact is so intense that Waylon trembles from his knees going weak, and his legs completely turn to jello when a strong arm comes to support him by the small of his back. Pinning him, holding him still, manipulating his heart and mind to simultaneously short-circuit.

Waylon inhales and Eddie takes advantage of the action to slide his tongue across Waylon’s lip, asking for permission. And who would Waylon be to not allow him?

They kiss like this for heaven knows how long, their twining of tongues never going past brief battles for temporary dominance. Waylon takes control when he wants and Eddie welcomes the challenges, chasing off Waylon’s attempts then surrendering when desperation starts to dissuade Waylon’s tact. It would be an overstatement to call this little game sweet (lustful without devilish desire, that’s what this is), but it is enough to drag Waylon just a little bit out of the hole he has find himself in.

“Darling,” Eddie groans into his mouth and yes, Waylon knows what he’s going to ask. He can feel the question resonating in his soul, his entire essence being lit on fire in this one moment of serenity and he _sees_ the array of colors before him, shades and hues being bestowed upon him like a gift.

Eddie pushes him further against the door, and his back aches gingerly; the doorknob stabs a dark bruise on his hip and Waylon eats it all up, biting Eddie’ tongue and lips, getting a taste of metal.

“Waylon, my love, what color do you see?”

It’s rhetorical at this point, but Waylon gladly answers, “Red. I’m _always_ seeing red.”


End file.
